Still Want to Take Life Seriously?
In a universe where we're less than a blink in time — where stars won't notice our silence or our screams — what’s the point of it all? And yet… we create, we ache, we love. This is not despair. This is defiance. Read on, if you’ve ever questioned your place in it all...
"Whispers from the Pale Blue Dot
Sometimes, in the solitude of early dawn, when the world is still curled in sleep and the stars haven't yet been erased by sunlight, I sit and stare at the sky — not to find answers, but to remember how insignificant I truly am.
They say the universe began 13.8 billion years ago in a violent bloom of nothing into everything.
The Milky Way took shape shortly after — 13.6 billion years ago.
Our Sun, a rather unremarkable star, was born 4.6 billion years ago, and our Earth, a swirling molten rock then, cooled enough for oceans around 4.5 billion years ago.
I wasn’t even an idea in the winds of time.
Life? That stubborn flicker of chemistry?
It began 3.8 billion years ago with single-celled organisms — no dreams, no questions.
It took another 3.2 billion years for multicellular life to show up,
and another few hundred million for something to crawl onto land.
Then, eventually, came us — not as kings, not as chosen ones — but as latecomers to a party already eons old.
Homo erectus arrived 1.6 million years ago.
Homo sapiens? Just 300,000 years back.
Civilization? Writing? Stories? Kingdoms? That’s barely 6,000 years old.
Do you see?
If the universe were a yearlong calendar, our entire written history exists in the last 10 seconds of December 31st.
I, this voice typing now, this brain imagining itself significant, was born in the last millisecond.
A breath.
A blink.
A speck in the silent entropy.
The Milky Way, with its 100 billion stars, isn’t even special.
It’s just one of two trillion galaxies — each pregnant with stars and dreams we’ll never see.
Our observable universe stretches across 93 billion light-years, and still it’s just what we can see. Beyond that? The cosmic silence smirks.
And me?
I am a 47-year-old man on a planet that’s 4.5 billion years old,
orbiting a star that doesn’t know I exist,
in a galaxy that won’t mourn when I vanish,
in a universe where meaning was never written into the code.
Yet still…
I wonder.
I write.
I seek.
I love.
I rage against injustice.
I savor the curves of poetry.
I lose sleep over the architecture of neurons and the morality of algorithms.
I whisper "I miss you" into the dark, even though it echoes back with cosmic indifference.
Is that foolish?
Maybe.
But it is also beautiful.
Because the miracle is not in being significant.
The miracle is : moving (rebelling) forward, despite the weight of it all.,
knowing the floor beneath you is dissolving into entropy,
knowing the ceiling above you stretches into stars that don’t care.
The miracle is : forging for meaning with trembling hands, fully knowing the universe offers none,
of choosing kindness over chaos,
of creating art in the absence of divine decree.
That is where I live — between the collapse of cosmic time and the hush of a personal heartbeat.
Not to win, not to last, not to be remembered —
but to be awake, if only for a flicker,
in a universe that sleeps.
So yes — how tiny we are.
We are not the center of the universe. We are its quiet confession of curiosity.
But how magnificent it is to realize it.
And yet still choose to love, to create, to mean and rebel for something.
That is the quiet rebellion.
That is the pulse of a thinking man on a spinning rock.
That is me.
That is us.
On a pale blue dot adrift in endless night, a species dared to speak — softly, foolishly, beautifully.
Thanks for dropping by !
You might also like :
A Reflective Journey Through Time, Entropy, and Causality
The Words We Leave Unspoken
The Absurdity of Legacy : Why Do We Care About What Happens After We Die?
Disclaimer : Everything written above, I owe to the great minds I've encountered and the voices I’ve heard along the way.